


What Does A Girl Want to Hear?

by ladymelodrama



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Episode 6x20, Extended Scene, F/M, Idiots in Love, Il Tavolo Bianco, because i heart the last half of S6, sweet pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28812693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymelodrama/pseuds/ladymelodrama
Summary: Teresa's thoughts during the restaurant scene in 6x20 <3
Relationships: Patrick Jane & Teresa Lisbon, Patrick Jane/Teresa Lisbon
Comments: 16
Kudos: 46





	What Does A Girl Want to Hear?

**Author's Note:**

> Why am I writing a Mentalist fic like 5-6 years after the finale aired? Big elephants can always understand small elephants. _Because_ , Teresa. Because ;)
> 
> Also, more seriously, I'm almost done with my second full rewatch and the S6 Jisbon feels hit me like whoa this time around. I mean, I've always loved them, but still. So who knows? I may be back to write some more <3

Their banter had been _so_ light for a minute there, easy and carefree, falling into the same old patterns that they’d perfected over the past ten years, without even trying.

 _Ten years?_ Teresa muses, with a bit of wonder. _Has it really been that long?_

Time is a strange thing. It stretches out and wears thin and plays as many tricks as a carnival fortune teller. 

She can barely remember a time when Patrick Jane wasn’t in her life. She knows his favorite color and how he takes his tea, his sleeping (or, more accurately, his napping) habits and the short list of things that make him _truly_ smile (he’s free with his smiles but that list is shorter than most people think)—she knows that he would never pick a fancy restaurant like this one, if he had the choice. It’s too sedate and traditional. The lighting is too dark. He prefers open-air verandas, blush sunsets and street food.

She knows everything about him. And yet, lately…she’s been finding out that maybe that’s not true at all. Otherwise wouldn’t she be able to figure out what this recent moodiness is all about? How their usually easy manner has been turning oh-so-serious and tension-fraught on a dime? 

Teresa can’t account for it but she also doesn’t know how to stop it from happening. Or how to read the signs that they’re headed straight for it again.

“You always know what I’m gonna do…,” she murmurs to his last comment, because it’s true. 

“Mostly,” he smirks, happy with that fact, at least.

“One of these days I might surprise you,” she cautions him, even while knowing that it’s unlikely after all this time. He’s had a decade’s worth of practice reading her and he told her once that she was a quick study, even at the beginning.

_You wear your heart on your sleeve, Teresa. That’s just who you are. You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t._

“Please don’t,” he replies now, that smirk on his lips softening into a fonder smile. He fails to hold her gaze though, dropping his eyes from hers to the jacquard tablecloth. With that lingering and almost-shy ( _Patrick Jane, shy?_ Oh, now she knows she _must_ be misreading him) smile, he mutters to his salad plate, “I love that you’re predictable.” 

She nearly snorts on his blunt honesty, resisting the urge to roll her eyes heavenward. Patrick’s still looking at his plate, so she forgets herself for a minute, forgets the tension of the past few weeks (days, hours—for god’s sake, they just got over their last fight two minutes ago), thinking it’s safe to tease him back. She lilts, “Just what a girl wants to hear…”

Her teasing smile draws his gaze back up to hers, as always, but it’s short-lived this time. 

His smile has rapidly faded into something far more serious and her expression soon follows his lead, the tease failing to land. Her heart skips a little at the rather severe expression now gracing his features, still unsure about the underlying reason for it. But she recognizes it. She’s ensnared by it too. And it makes her feel like she’s on black ice, slipping sideways on the rink and reaching out for the boards too late.

The tension that’s been trailing them for weeks returns _so_ swiftly. It’s palpable enough that she could cut it with that butter knife sitting at her left hand. 

“What _does_ a girl want to hear?” he asks her, plainly, softly, blue eyes searching for an honest answer. 

There’s no judgment in his voice. No preconceived notions either. But his curiosity isn’t cursory. This isn’t a question he asks for kicks. His voice holds a sincere note that’s rare for him, raw and almost desperate? He wants to know. He _needs_ to know. He’s meeting her gaze with…

Well, she’s not sure what. She’s been sharing glances with Patrick for ten years. This is probably the thousandth time they’ve shared a meal together. So why does this suddenly feel like the first time again? Why are they so awkward and out of sync lately? 

It frustrates her to no end. She doesn’t understand why this keeps happening. She doesn’t understand why they can’t just continue as they were. She was so happy when he came back to the States. She’s been so happy working with him again and falling into all their old routines and habits. It’s like pulling on a favorite sweater and sinking into an overstuffed easy chair on a rainy day, fingers curled around a hot mug of tea.

This isn’t a random image that she conjures. She started drinking more tea after he left. She missed seeing a teacup in the sink, she supposes. Although she still preferred reading his letters with a glass of wine.

And yeah, moving to D.C. with Marcus will change things. Of course they will. That’s how life works. And she’ll miss him—seeing him every day, obviously she will. She can admit that, at least. It’s one of the reasons she hasn’t given Pike an answer yet. 

But what happens if she doesn’t go with Marcus? What happens if she settles into this same old dance with Patrick and then someday, he meets someone and moves away with a cheery, “I’ll send you a postcard from Polynesia, Teresa”, blowing a kiss as he walks out the door without a second look back?

She doesn’t know. But she also doesn’t know why she keeps getting lost in Patrick’s gaze and then forgetting what she was going to say.

Like now. She pauses for a beat. The first reply dies on her lips. It’s pure nonsense, and she doesn’t know why she’s even thinking that way. Or why it rushes into her head. She pushes it away without allowing the odd thought to fully form. She’s with Marcus. Marcus is a good guy. Jane’s said it himself. 

And she and Jane aren’t…they never…

Still, the thought lingers for a few seconds, like the pulse of a shooting star, before it falls away.

_What does a girl want to hear?_

_That you love her. That you want her to stay._

She doesn’t say those things, because she’s not sure. Of his feelings, of her own. 

Instead, she pretends. She’s become so good at pretending in the last however many weeks. If she was thinking clearly, she might find it alarming that he’s not calling her out on the pretense. Or not even seeing in the first place, too lost and distracted by his own con. 

She might realize that he’s pretending too. 

She finally answers him, her tone a little lost, even to her own ears. But it’s honest, at least, “I wish I knew.” 

Their conversation dies away, but the shared gaze continues. Longer than it should, deeper than expected. She can’t look away. No, she doesn’t _want_ to look away, caught up in…something. 

And maybe if it went on a little longer, Patrick might have pulled himself together and answered her back, with something less cryptic, something a little more solid, that they both could hold onto. 

Years later, Patrick will tell her that he might have cursed Aurelio for showing up with the wine list when he did.

But Aurelio is prompt and pleasing, ready to serve, and Patrick’s reply (whatever it might have been) is abandoned, and the spell that’s holding them fast is broken at the same time. Teresa should breathe a sigh of relief at that, she supposes. Saved by work again.

But she doesn’t.


End file.
